


Adam

by spnredemption



Series: Redemption Road [31]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnredemption/pseuds/spnredemption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Masterpost:</b> <b><a href="http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/1552.html">Supernatural: Redemption Road</a></b> (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)<br/><b>Author:</b> <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"><a href="http://electricskeptic.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://electricskeptic.livejournal.com/"><b>electricskeptic</b></a></span><br/><b>Characters/Pairing:</b> Dean/Castiel, Bobby, Sam, OC and canon characters<br/><b>Rating:</b> R<br/><b>Word Count:</b> ~18,500<br/><b>Warnings:</b> language, mild violence, sexuality<br/><b>Beta:</b> <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"><a href="http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/"><b>zatnikatel</b></a></span><br/><b>Art:</b> Chapter banner by <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"><a href="http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/"><b>geckoholic</b></a></span>; digital paintings by <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"><a href="http://doctorkara.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://doctorkara.livejournal.com/"><b>doctorkara</b></a></span>, which you can also find <b><a href="http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/30853.html">here</a></b> (all the art contains spoilers for the chapter; please also note this is animated/flashing gif art).</p>
    </blockquote>





	Adam

**Author's Note:**

> **Masterpost:** **[Supernatural: Redemption Road](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/1552.html)** (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)  
>  **Author:** [](http://electricskeptic.livejournal.com/profile)[**electricskeptic**](http://electricskeptic.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Bobby, Sam, OC and canon characters  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Word Count:** ~18,500  
>  **Warnings:** language, mild violence, sexuality  
>  **Beta:** [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Art:** Chapter banner by [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[**geckoholic**](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) ; digital paintings by [](http://doctorkara.livejournal.com/profile)[**doctorkara**](http://doctorkara.livejournal.com/) , which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/30853.html)** (all the art contains spoilers for the chapter; please also note this is animated/flashing gif art).

  


_Madisonville, Texas_

He wakes to total, absolute darkness, biting cold and the smell of damp in his nostrils, a hard stone floor beneath his back. There's a burning ache in his shoulders and thighs, and after a moment of disoriented confusion he realizes it's because his arms and legs are stretched out on either side of him, pulled and distorted into some kind of macabre crucifixion pose. He tries tugging at his wrists, but gets nothing back save for the clanking of iron-link chain.

He's stuck fast.

It's delayed, but the panic is definitely starting to take hold, his heart rate speeding up until the steady _thump-thump-thump_ of it becomes a soundtrack to his terror. He tries to scream for help, but the sound comes out muffled and subdued; when he turns his head he feels the rough scratch of hemp moving over his face and realizes the darkness comes from the execution-style hood he's wearing.

He struggles to recall how he got here – for any clue as to where _here_ even is – but his memory fails him. The last thing he remembers is walking home from the bar after a few post-work drinks and being jumped by two guys, the whole thing so sudden and brutal that he never even saw their faces. _An ambush_.

Whoever his captors are, he has no idea what they might want with somebody like him; average, unremarkable in every sense of the word. Neither rich nor successful, no wealthy or famous relatives who might be inclined to pay a ransom, and he has to wonder whether they haven't mistaken him for somebody else.

It's a full minute before he figures out that he isn't alone.

He doesn't know what it is that clues him in, because the _other_ doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound or even move in any way that he can tell. The only explanation he can think of is that it's some kind of heightened sixth sense borne out of blindness, because he becomes gradually aware of a presence, a _malevolence_ , until he's not only sure that there's somebody else in the room, but that they're _watching_ him.

"Who's there?" He attempts to make it a challenge, but his voice comes out desperate and tremulous, shaking in the dark.

"Oh, you're ready to play now?"

The reply drifts out of nowhere, lilting and female, at odds with the muscle-bound heavies who attacked him. For some reason, that makes the situation all the more terrifying, as does the mirthful tone in which the words are spoken. Footsteps approach, the _clack-clack_ of high-heeled boots building to a crescendo as she draws closer, and then the hood is being lifted off his head, his vision swimming and blurring as the world comes back into focus.

The lighting is dim enough that he can't make out much of the space he's found himself in, but the woman in front of him is younger than he expected: late twenties at most, dark-haired and pale-skinned, wearing a leather jacket and tight, tight jeans. He supposes she's attractive enough – his buddies from the bar would certainly think so – but there's a _wrongness_ about her, something he can't put his finger on but repulses him nonetheless, makes his skin want to crawl right off his body when she steps closer.

"You're looking a little pale there, Joel," she observes, her voice threaded through with satisfaction. "I hope the boys didn't rough you up too bad."

He doesn't bother asking how she knows his name, but it kills any lingering hope that this is all the result of a colossal misunderstanding.

"What do you want?" His voice fractures and breaks on the last word, but he's beyond caring. "Is it money? I don't have much, but I could get you some—"

She laughs, and the sound of it is like death. He has never been a big believer in the supernatural, the world beyond the world, but somehow he can't shake the feeling that she's something more than human, this woman. She could be the devil incarnate, and suddenly he's worried not just for his life, but for his soul as well.

"You can keep your petty cash jar," she tells him. "I'm afraid I'm a little more ambitious than your average hostage-taker."

"Please." He sobs, the hot spring of tears instinctive, and he doesn't bother trying to stop them even though he senses she won't be moved. "Please, I have a daughter. Her name's Eliza, she turns eight next month. Her mother passed away last year, I'm all she has left."

He pictures her waiting for him at home, her sweet smile and eyes the exact same shade as her mother's, and wonders how long it'll take for her to realize that he won't be coming back, that her one remaining parent has failed in his duties and left her alone.

The woman cocks her head to the side in a vaguely birdlike manner, her mouth curling up at the corners. "How sweet. You should've mentioned something earlier; I would have brought her along to watch the show. Made a real family outing of it."

"You don't have to do this," he begs, the volume of his pleas growing along with his desperation and hysteria. "You could still walk away from all this. I won't say anything, I swear. You're still young; do you really want the Feds on your tail for the rest of your life?"

She sighs theatrically, crouching next to his face and pulling a long, wicked-looking knife from her boot. The edge of the metal looks sharp enough that it could be surgical, and he squirms as she holds it inches from his eye, pulling fruitlessly at his restraints. He calls for help again, and she rolls her eyes, looking more unimpressed than fearful of discovery.

"Nobody's coming to save you, Joel," she taunts in a singsong voice. Her breath smells rancid, like rotten eggs. _Sulfur_ , he thinks wildly, the scent triggering memories of eighth-grade chemistry experiments gone wrong.

"Now, you seem a little slow on the uptake, so here's how this is going down. I'm going to carve you up like a Christmas ham, and your little girl – Eliza, right? – she'll be so damaged by what happened to her daddy that the vengeance and wrath will swallow her whole, and she'll grow up to hunt things like me. Who knows, maybe she'll even get lucky. I'll be waiting, whenever she feels ready to duke it out."

"You're a crazy bitch, you know that?" he spits out recklessly. Her face hardens, and he knows instantly that he has made a mistake; a second later, she's stabbing her knife down into the center of his hand with brutal force. It's the most painful thing he has ever experienced, and he screams in absolute agony as the blade slices through flesh and muscle, carpal bones shattering with the strength of the blow. His vision whites out, and for a moment he allows himself to hope that maybe he'll be lucky enough to lose consciousness again – but an instant later he's coming back to himself, his hand pinned to the floor as effectively as a butterfly to a board.

"I don't appreciate your tone," the woman tells him icily.

"I'm sorry!" he chokes, his voice coming out high and strained through the haze of pain.

"That's okay, I forgive you." She pats his cheek in a parody of comfort, her touch utterly devoid of warmth. "We all say things we don't mean when we're stressed."

She wrenches her knife back out and, impossibly, it seems to hurt even more than when it went in, a sick spray of gore splattering her face as his entire body jack-knifes and a garbled cry tears its way out of his throat.

"Why are you doing this?" he whimpers pathetically, when he feels like he can speak again. "Why me?"

"Don't worry; it's nothing personal. You're not that important. Just unlucky. Wrong place at the wrong time, and all that." She licks blood from her top lip and grins at him wolfishly. "Me and you, we're gonna be sending out an invitation. See, I'm throwing a party, and there are some very good friends of mine that I'd like to attend."

It doesn't make any sense, but he no longer gives a damn. "Who are you?" he asks. He doesn't suppose it really matters, but if he's going to die tonight then he'd at least like to know who his murderer is, this stranger he's never met before in his life but who could have crawled straight out of Hell.

"I've got a lot of names," she tells him; her voice is slow, ponderous, and he knows that she's mocking him. She looks at him, and for a split-second her eyes are black as pitch; two hollow, empty voids, the very absence of light.

"But you can call me Meg."

_Augusta, Arkansas  
Two days later_

Castiel watches Dean devour his burger and fries from across the grease-stained tabletop, filled with an unusual mixture of revulsion, fascination and amusement. Usually he finds Dean very pleasing to look upon, but when he has his mouth crammed full of oily, stodgy diner food, even Castiel fails to find him quite so attractive as he would do ordinarily.

"You could slow down," he comments casually as Dean shovels in another handful of fries like he's concerned somebody might take the food away from him at any given moment. "It's not going to go anywhere."

He takes a considerably more modest-sized bite of his own meal to demonstrate, though in all honesty he's relieved to see Dean back to some approximation of his usual self after their encounter with his visions of Alastair. Castiel had failed to fully appreciate just how tormented Dean still was by his memories of Hell until experiencing it first hand, but he is beginning to tentatively hope that the incident has given Dean the closure he needs to start moving on.

"Shut it," Dean snaps at him in return, though it's somewhat lacking in its usual heat. "You sound like Sam, you know that?"

"Your brother is a wise man; you'd do well to listen to him." Castiel is trying for solemn, but finds himself unable to entirely suppress a smile.

Dean opens his mouth to reply when the glass-fronted door of the diner swings open and Sam bursts in as if summoned by name, stumbling into tables in a manner that suggests he isn't totally aware of his surroundings. The reason for this uncharacteristic clumsiness is clear: Sam is talking rapidly into his cell phone, wearing a slightly dopey expression that makes it all too obvious just who it is he's talking to.

"No, that's not what I—" he stammers out as he nears their table, sounding hopelessly flustered. "Yeah. No, I… Okay. Yeah, you too. See you later."

He snaps his phone shut with a decisive _click_ , sliding into the booth next to Dean and clearing his throat in an utterly transparent attempt to appear nonchalant.

"Mira again?" Dean asks knowingly, raising his eyebrows and nudging his brother lightly in the ribs. In Castiel's opinion, Dean is having far too much fun with this new development, most likely in petty vengeance for all the teasing jibes Sam has delivered about their own relationship over the last few months.

"Grow up, Dean," Sam sighs, though he still shifts somewhat awkwardly on the cheap vinyl seat covering. " _Actually_ , she had some info on a case across the border in Texas. Might be worth checking out."

"Why can't she just check it out herself?"

"Um, because she's tied up dealing with a vampire problem all the way over in Colorado?" Sam suggests, frowning like Dean is being especially obtuse. Dean mimes cracking a whip with his hand while making the accompanying sound effect, and it's at this point that Castiel feels it may be best to intercede before all-out war breaks out.

"What exactly does this case involve, Sam?"

"Right." Sam sends his brother one last poisonous look before turning his attention to more pressing matters. "Four bodies have shown up in this town since a week ago Tuesday, all of them flayed and… _eviscerated_ , possibly while still alive. Apparently the local police are thinking serial killer but it's all being kept pretty hush-hush for now, which is why we haven't heard anything about it on the news. Mira only caught wind of it through the hunter grapevine."

At this, Sam and Dean share a significant look, perhaps irritated at not having been informed by the _grapevine_ themselves. Castiel is aware that the brothers are no longer as well connected as they used to be, the Winchester name still carrying a stigma after their inadvertent triggering of the apocalypse.

"'Course, it _could_ just be the work of your average, run-of-the-mill Dahmer wannabe," Dean suggests without conviction. Castiel looks up and catches a middle-aged woman from a neighboring booth watching their table unabashedly, interest evidently piqued by the unusual topic of conversation. He levels her with a stare until she blushes and drops her gaze, busying herself with her napkin.

"Dude, be creepier," Dean mutters. Castiel sneaks a fry from his plate in response, smirking around a mouthful of salty fried potato as Dean glares daggers at him.

"Come on, Dean: when has it ever been _just_ a serial killer?" Sam points out. "Besides which, it doesn't fit the profile. According to Mira, there's no connection between any of the victims: three men and one woman, all ages, all with different jobs, backgrounds, ethnicities…there's normally a pattern with serial killers, right?"

"Yeah, okay. It's probably worth a look," Dean concedes. "Just let me finish up here, and we'll hit the road."

If there's one thing Dean is sure of, it's that he's seen more than his fair share of death. Even taking the forty years spent down under out of the equation, his life since the age of four has been a never-ending carnival ride of bloodshed and violence. As such, there's not a whole lot left that can phase him, but the body on the coroner's table in Madisonville is in such a state that he still feels his stomach try to turn itself inside out as he looks it over, this twisted jumble of flesh that had only days ago been a man who went to work and hugged his child and _lived_.

He's seen worse, that's for sure. But not much worse, and not outside of Hell.

"Jesus," Sam breathes, looking as though he's in serious danger of losing his lunch in the next ten seconds. Even Castiel seems perturbed, shifting uneasily at Dean's side as they all gape down at the body, unable to look away.

"There you go, agents," the coroner announces, the only one of them who appears totally unaffected. He's a tall, thin man with an unfortunate bald patch, the kind who seems to have a macabre enthusiasm for his job. "One Joel McKinnon, thirty-seven years of age, found early yesterday morning after an anonymous police tip-off. And let me tell you, trying to figure out cause of death – well, frankly, it's been a bitch."

Dean gets how that could be. The entire body has been stripped of skin, leaving the raw pink flesh underneath exposed to the elements. The stomach and intestines are sitting inside plastic containers on a separate table, and there's a six-inch incision in the left side of the corpse through which they were presumably removed, leaving the abdomen looking deflated and concave. The eyes and tongue are also missing, and the arms and legs hang awkwardly in a manner that suggests they've been dislocated at the shoulders and hips. Perhaps most brutal of all, the ribcage has been cracked wide open, laying bare the inside of the chest cavity with the heart and lungs still in place and largely intact.

"We haven't started on the autopsy yet, so everything you're seeing now is the work of the killer," the coroner informs them bluntly. "Poor Joel here was wearing his intestines around his neck when he was found."

"Like a lei?" Sam chips in, scrunching up his nose in disgust.

The coroner grimaces. "More like a _noose_. I can tell you one thing: whoever did this, they sure as hell knew what they were doing."

"What makes you say that?" Castiel asks sharply, his whole posture shifting to alert.

The coroner looks at him uneasily. "Well, take this, for example…" He points to the gaping hole in the victim's side. "That wound's so precise it could have been done by a surgeon. There's a real _artistry_ here; this wasn't just some butcher, it was somebody who takes pride in their work."

For some reason, the choice of words triggers something in Dean, and when he glances down at the body again he's almost bowled over by a sense of déjà vu so intense he has to wonder why he didn't realize it earlier – though he suspects the answer is because he didn't _want_ to. He hasn't just seen this before, he's _done_ it before: hundreds – _thousands_ – of times, to the countless souls that were placed in front of him in the Pit.

He tortured people in so many different ways down there, but this became his signature dish, the punishment for which he was most infamous. He stripped the skin from their bones, he plucked out their eyeballs and tongues, he drew out their viscera and used the gelatinous ropes to string them up by their necks – all while Alastair hovered behind his shoulder, patted him on the back like a proud father, and hissed, _"We'll make an artist out of you yet."_

Which means that whoever's responsible for this, and already a horrible idea is beginning to germinate, they know all of that, and they're mocking him, using the darkest moments of his past to get his attention. This isn't just a random spate of killings at all; it's a trap designed specifically for them, and these people died for no other reason than to bring Dean Winchester to Madisonville.

Swallowing past his suddenly dry mouth, Dean turns to the coroner. "Could you, um, give us a few minutes?"

"Sure. Just make sure you clean up after yourselves when you're done."

Dean doesn't look at Sam and Castiel as the doctor leaves the room, focused only on the mangled remains of the unfortunate Joel McKinnon. If he's right…he peers into the yawning chest cavity, and there it is: sliced into the surface of the heart like a brand, the intricate swirls and slashes exactly the same as Dean remembers from when he carved the same design into cardiac muscle what seems like a lifetime ago.

"Dean, what are you doing?"

"There," Dean cuts his brother off, pointing to the heart with a grim sense of triumph and stepping back so that the others can see.

"What is that?" Sam frowns, uncomprehending. Castiel is looking too, and the expression on his face is one of dawning realization as he comes to the same conclusion Dean has been desperately hoping was the wrong one.

"That's—"

"Alastair's sigil," Dean finishes for him. "This is a trap. This whole fucking thing."

He's got some pretty strong suspicions as to who's responsible, too: there's one other person he knows of in the whole damn world who was an apprentice under the same master, who studied all the same techniques to deliver the most efficient torture, and knows how to get under Dean's skin just as effectively as Alastair did.

"Fucking _Meg_ ," he growls, barely resisting the urge to kick the morgue table in his frustration.

"We can't know for sure that it's her," Sam reasons in the _sensitive voice_ he usually reserves for questioning the bereaved. "I mean, there's got to be hundreds of demons who know what you did down there; any one of them would be able to use this against you."

"I know _her_ , okay?" Dean snaps, harsher than he intends to, "and she knows _us_. Believe me; this has her name written all over it." He clenches his hands into fists, comes to a decision. "We need to leave, now. We're here because she wants us to be, and I'm guessing it's not just for a catch-up."

Castiel opens his mouth, but whatever he means to say, Dean never gets to hear it – without any cue or warning, there is a flash of light bright enough to burn his retinas, and Castiel is doubling over with a cry of agony that freezes Dean's blood in his veins.

"Cas?!" Dean blinks, tries to quell the rising panic as he rushes over to grab hold of Castiel's arm, and he is peripherally aware of Sam doing the same thing. " _Cas_!" he barks again when his first attempt garners no response. "What's going on? Come on, man, talk to me."

Castiel's only reply is a tense shake of his head, his knees buckling from underneath him in such a manner that would send him crashing to the floor if not for the brothers holding him up. At the same time, the angel seems to emit another brief strobe of light, almost like an electrical discharge, and he groans something unintelligible before his body goes completely lax, the sudden silence punctuated by his too-shallow breaths.

"Cas?" Dean ventures again, tipping Castiel's head back with careful fingers to get a better look at his face. He's conscious; but just barely, and he seems completely out of it, unfocused eyes staring right through Dean.

Dean trades nervous looks with his brother, unable now to ignore the triple-time pounding of his heart, the bile rising in his throat. He's never seen anything like this before, and he had no idea how he can even begin to help.

"We need to go," he repeats.

"Too late," Sam says softly. Dean looks up and sees that the coroner has just re-entered the room, only it's obvious just from the way he carries himself that he's not the same dude anymore; something that's confirmed an instant later when his eyes flash solid black.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Dean demands, his rage increasing when the demon's only response is an insolent smirk.

Sam lets go of Castiel to pull Ruby's knife from his belt, but he doesn't manage more than two steps before the demon waves a hand and sends him flying halfway across the room to crash into the far wall. Dean yells his brother's name, but Sam doesn't stir, and Dean is momentarily torn between staying with Castiel and rushing over to check on Sam, struggling with the primal fear that threatens to overtake him every time his brother is hurt.

"You better start hoping for your sake that they both wake up," he snarls. The demon only smiles wider, and Dean doesn't notice there's another one until it's too late: the thing sneaks up on him with a blow to the back of the head, and the last thing Dean is aware of is the exploding pain behind his eyes before the morgue fades from his vision and he's freefalling into the realm of unconsciousness.

The next time Sam becomes aware of his surroundings, it's to find himself sitting in a large, expansive room with a raised speaking platform at one end that reminds him a little of an auditorium and a little of a church and isn't really all that much like either. Town Hall, he realizes after a moment of the disoriented confusion that usually follows a blow to the head. 

He's seated in the very center of the front row; Dean is seated to his left and Castiel is on the other side of him. Dean is still unconscious, his head hanging down against his chest, but Castiel is awake and alert, his eyes scanning the surroundings with military sharpness despite the pinched expression of pain on his face.

"Are you alright?" the angel asks tersely, under his breath.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Sam points out. "What _was_ that back there?"

"I don't know," Castiel replies, the grim set of his mouth suggesting that it's something he's far from happy about. "If I were to hazard a guess, it was the banishing sigil. But whatever it was, it drained me."

Something jostles Sam's elbow and he realizes that Dean is beginning to stir, groaning and rubbing at his eyes as he comes back to consciousness. Dean blinks several times as the predicament they've landed themselves in seems to dawn on him, then swears in a low voice.

"Well fuck. This can't be good."

They haven't been restrained, but there are two guards positioned at both of the room's exits. Sam recognizes the coroner and one of the lab technicians from the morgue, plus two women he's never seen before; one wrapped in an expensive-looking silk suit and the other with cropped purple hair and biking leathers.

He doesn't need to see the black eyes to know that they're all possessed: the stench of sulfur in the air, their predatory grins and the anticipatory way they lick their lips is evidence enough.

"Ah, you found the place okay, then?" an unfortunately familiar voice rings out from the back of the hall. "I was worried your invites might have gotten lost in the mail."

Sam spins around in his seat, and sure enough, there's Crowley striding down the aisle between the rows of chairs and looking sickeningly pleased with himself. Even worse, he's not alone – walking alongside him is none other than Meg, her expression an exact mirror of the other demon's. There's a noticeable crackle of tension between them, though, something about the whole charade that seems almost forced.

Either way, Sam figures, they're screwed.

Crowley and Meg walk to the front of the hall, stopping in front of the platform and turning to face their captives. Dean is on his feet almost instantly, Sam and Castiel following suit. _Never put yourself below your enemies if you can help it_.

"What did you do to me?" Castiel demands, his voice a low, furious rumble that seems to bring with it the promise of thunder.

"Just a little banishing sigil my new best friend Fergus showed me," Meg smirks, looking Castiel up and down with entirely too much interest. "Only temporary, of course, and not as impressive as it'd be if you were firing on all your cylinders…but for the time being, you can consider yourself neutered, Clarence."

"Wait, so you're working _together_ now?" Dean spits in disgust. "I thought you two hated each other. In fact, last I heard, you were actively trying to _kill_ each other."

"Don't get me wrong," Crowley shrugs, "I still think she's an insolent little worm whose continued existence causes serious aggravation—"

"— and he's a pompous cunt with more style than substance," Meg interjects savagely.

"...but we both want the same thing," Crowley finishes, "so it seemed expedient. Call it a mutually beneficial ceasefire."

Dean shakes his head in disgust. "Man, you'll climb into bed with anybody, won't you?"

"Well, your boyfriend would know all about that," Crowley shoots back, throwing a lewd wink in Castiel's direction.

"Did you forget that I promised I'd kill you if I ever saw you again?" Castiel asks the demon in a soft, dangerous tone that makes Sam shudder. It's all too easy to forget, especially now that Castiel wears worn-in flannel and bakes pie and _smiles_ , that their friend is still more akin to a hurricane wrapped in the body of a dead man than he is anything like human.

Crowley seems somewhat less intimidated by the threat, rolling his eyes. "What, just because I kidnapped your pretend daughter and then helped to save your life at my own very great inconvenience? Grow up, mate. Bigger things afoot."

"Are you done?" Meg snaps, glaring daggers at Crowley. Sam sneaks a glance at her and sees that her jaw is clenched tight, her face drawn and sullen; she's been uncharacteristically quiet up until now in a way that makes Sam incredibly nervous. She looks out of place in her denim and leather next to Crowley's impeccably tailored suit; everything about them is a study in contrast, right down to the way they speak, Meg's rasping drawl clashing with Crowley's smooth British tones. The two demons might have temporarily buried the hatchet for the sake of their uneasy alliance, but it's clear to see that there's still no love lost between them, and Sam wonders whether there might be some way to use that to their advantage.

"Okay, we'll play ball," he starts, ignoring the look Dean shoots him in response. It's a look he recognizes all too well, the one that says, _what the hell are you playing at, Sam?_ "You said you both want the same thing: what would that be, exactly?"

"Well, since you ask so nicely," Crowley smirks, and Sam braces himself for whatever's about to come next. "You can just hand over your angel there, and then be on your merry way."

"You're kidding," Dean responds flatly after a moment of stunned silence.

"Alas, I cannot tell a lie."

"You're not having Cas," Dean states, and Sam wonders if it's only because he's so close to his brother that he can hear the note of panic creeping in there.

"What do you even want me for?" Castiel adds, sounding as weary as Sam has ever heard him. "I'm not worth anything. I'm all but useless, these days."

"Call it part of my revenge quest," Crowley announces, the self-satisfaction practically _radiating_ from him now. His features harden abruptly. "You took my souls, or had you forgotten that little detail? Oh, and Dean? You'll probably want to reconsider your position there. You have something _we_ want, but we have something I know for a fact that you want."

"I don't care," Dean maintains. "We don't deal with demons."

"Not even to save your own brother from a fate worse than death?"

"You're not touching Sam, either,"

"Not _that_ one," Meg chips in, rolling her eyes. "The other one. The one you left behind to rot in the Cage. It's always best to have leverage when you want to bargain with someone, so we took the liberty of getting little brother out."

_Adam. They have Adam_. Sam doesn't know how to describe the cocktail of emotions that floods through him at the realization: hope that Adam might finally be out of Hell, dread at the thought of what Meg and Crowley could have planned for him. Doubt that they can even be telling the truth, because last he heard, the Cage was all but impenetrable.

"That's impossible," Castiel says, echoing Sam's thoughts exactly. "I almost died trying to get Sam out, there's no way that _you_ could have—"

"Oh, we didn't," Crowley interrupts, "at least, not by ourselves. But the thing about being the King of Hell is that you have connections, and there was a certain leprechaun quite willing to go in there on our behalf for the sake of a small fee. Maybe you remember him, Sam? He had one hell of a bone to pick with you, so he gave us a good price."

And Sam _does_ remember, although he hadn't realized it until now, a brief flash of memory from when he was soulless: a short, bald man with a sly grin, _Sam, I can get it back for you…Got a way of getting in back doors_. Spilling salt in front of the leprechaun, forcing him to count every individual grain. Feeling nothing as he threw away yet another opportunity to get his soul back, unable to comprehend why it seemed to matter so much to Dean.

"Why should we believe you?" Dean wants to know, forcing Sam to tune back into the conversation. "All we've got is your word, and frankly, that isn't worth much."

"Oh, don't worry, Deano, we weren't expecting you to take it on faith," Meg grins. "We've got _proof_."

Another demon walks over, carrying a large black briefcase that Sam recognizes as being similar to the ones used to bring souls to Famine, to carry his own soul when Death dragged it out of Hell. The lackey sets it down in front of Meg and Crowley; Meg snaps her fingers and the briefcase springs open, an intense light flooding out so brightly that Sam has to shield his eyes. He is aware of Dean doing the same beside him.

He chances another look when the light dies down, and his breath instantly catches in his throat because there, standing in front of the briefcase, is Adam.

The last time Sam saw his half-brother, they were both at the mercy of the two most powerful beings ever created by the hand of God, trapped in never-ending torment. This Adam is clearly a disembodied spirit in a way that wasn't so obvious back then, flickering in and out of view every few seconds. He's covered in blood, wearing the same clothes as he was when Sam sent him tumbling into the Pit, and the expression on his face is shocked and disoriented. He looks around without seeming to take anything in, flinching when his eyes pass over the demons, as if he can see them for what they really are.

"Sam?" he ventures when he looks their way. "Is he gone, Sam? Is he coming back? Please, don't let him take me again."

Sam doesn't need to ask to know who _he_ is, and he feels sick to his stomach.

"He's bound to us, of course," Crowley announces cheerfully, and now that Sam looks closer he can see it: a thin ribbon of some silvery substance twined around Adam's torso, incorporeal bindings holding him in place. "He can't go anywhere without our say-so. But that's our offer, boys: Adam for Cas. I think you'll find it's more than fair. And since I'm feeling generous today, we'll even give you twenty-four hours to make up your minds."

"Don't even think about skipping town, though," Meg adds. "We've put a demon inside every single man, woman and child living here. Insurance, you know. In the _highly_ unlikely event you managed to make it past them all, they're all under orders to kill the hosts. How would your poor consciences cope with having _that_ on your hands?"

"And what if we refuse?" Dean asks. "What, you'll just toss Adam back into Hell?"

"Oh no," Crowley replies, only it doesn't sound particularly reassuring. "What would be the fun in that when we could just wipe him from existence instead? Obliterate his soul entirely."

"Is that even possible?"

"Of course it's possible, moron. It's very old magic, very powerful – not the sort of stuff you'd want to be messing with if you don't know what you're doing – but souls can be destroyed, just like everything else."

Sam lets that sink in for a moment or two. Part of him is tempted to think it might just be preferable to another lifetime in the Cage, but the rest of him isn't convinced. Even in Hell, he'd had a degree of self-awareness; enough to dream, to remember better times, times when he had a brother and a girlfriend and living parents and his world was more than just pain and torture. It had been an existence, even if it was a horrific one, but to not even have that, to not exist _at all_...as a thought, it's terrifying.

Meg snaps her fingers again and Adam disappears, the lid of the briefcase slamming shut with depressing finality.

"Twenty-four hours," Crowley reminds them again. "I do believe it's your move, gentlemen."

Then he raises both hands, claps them together once, and in the next instant Sam, Dean and Castiel find themselves back in the motel room. Sam glances briefly at his brother and the angel, and it's clear from the expressions on their faces that they're all thinking exactly the same thing.

_What the fuck do we do now?_

_The Cage goes on forever, a vast, barren emptiness lit up by streaks and flashes of incandescent light that burns them and flames that curl around them, melting their flesh, turning their fat to sizzling oil that spatters up into their eyes and blinds them so they can't see the bright ones. But they can hear the bright ones screeching out their wrath, the noise of their battle constant, the clash of their swords sparking flame and charging the atmosphere with ozone._

_Sam blocks his ears but he can still hear their screaming. He tries to focus on the other place, if he was ever really in the other place at all, because he has been in this place so long he thinks it might have always been his reality._

_And then some indeterminate time later, he sees another light, calm and blue, a soft, warm light that beckons him closer. He steals towards it, while the discordant noise and clamor of fury rages around him, and the light whispers soothingly as it draws him along and shows him a way out and up, because this bright one is different, this is the one who raised Sam from Perdition while his brother screamed, don't leave me here, Sam…_

"Sam!"

Sam snaps out of the memory with a start, blinking wearily until Hell fades into the background and the garish décor of this week's motel room comes back into focus, his brother's irate-concerned face hovering inches from his own. It's been a while since the last time he had a flashback that _all-consuming_ , and it takes him a while to adjust; though at least, he notes ruefully, he's managed to remain somewhat vertical this time, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the migraine-inducing bedspread.

It doesn't take a Stanford education to figure out what's triggered him, and it's with a sinking heart that he recalls their encounter with Meg and Crowley, the offer, _Adam_.

"Did you even hear a word I just said?" Dean asks impatiently, though the snappish tone is somewhat undercut by the sheer worry evident in his voice; a worry that never really goes away, Sam knows. The world outside the window is overcast and dull, and the effect of it serves to make Dean look washed-out and gray, old beyond his years.

"Um," Sam replies eloquently. His gaze slides over to Castiel, perched on the edge of the desk. The angel's expression has gone almost totally blank in that way it does whenever he's deep in thought, only Sam thinks he can see little hints of guilt creeping in at the edges. For some reason, the realization bothers him: that Castiel is such a familiar presence by now that Sam has become attuned to the tiny fluctuations of emotion beneath the mask of stoicism. That the thought of handing Castiel over to meet an unspecified fate at the hands of Meg and Crowley makes him feel physically ill, dread uncoiling in his stomach with an intensity that surprises him.

"Well, are you at least okay?" Dean prompts, and Sam realizes that he's been zoning out again, forces himself to stay in the moment.

"Define okay," he responds hollowly. "Dean, what the hell do we do now?"

"Fuck, I don't know." Dean scrubs furious hands through his hair, spins away from Sam to pace the room agitatedly. "I don't _know_ , Sam."

The weariness practically _radiates_ off him, the slump to his shoulders and the dark shadows under his eyes, and if Sam is despairing at the thought of losing Castiel again, he can't even begin to fathom how Dean must feel about it all, because this _thing_ between the two of them is something huge, incomprehensible, and Sam knows that Dean will be utterly destroyed if all that is snatched away from him now.

But. There's still Adam to consider. The one true innocent in all this, the boy Sam dragged into the Pit with him by mistake and who has been suffering there for _decades_ since. Time is distorted in Hell, the seconds move slower than they do on the surface even if the years speed by; or maybe there are just more seconds, stretching out in perpetuity. It means Sam had plenty of time to get acquainted with his half-brother during their years in the Cage.

He'd always tried to shield Adam from the worst of Lucifer's torment, but first Castiel and then Death came to drag him out in pieces and Adam has been left to bear the brunt of the Devil's rage alone, because nobody ever thought to save the collateral damage.

And to be erased from existence entirely – not just killed or even banished to Hell, but completely and totally _annihilated_ – God, Sam can't even begin to wrap his head around the enormity of that. They have a real chance here, to actually _save_ somebody for once; but at the same time he knows in his heart that there's no way they can go through with deal, and not just because Dean would fall apart.

"We could—" Castiel begins tentatively.

"Don't you even fucking say it," Dean snarls, cutting him off. "We're not throwing you to the wolves, Cas, so don't even go there. We'll think of something else."

"Like what, exactly?" Castiel snaps back. "We have twenty-four hours, Dean, and that's it. We don't have a choice, and you know it. Adam doesn't deserve what they'll do to him."

"Neither do you!" Dean is almost shouting now, but Sam knows his brother, and he knows that this isn't anger as much as it is desperation, Dean's ever-present need to cling to the things he loves as they slip through his fingers.

"How can you say that, after everything I did?"

"Oh, for – you're a goddamn martyr, Cas, you know that?"

"Who do you suppose I got that from?" Castiel snipes. Then he sighs, and it's like he's deflating; it's such a tired, _human_ sound that Sam aches to hear it. "Adam is your family, Dean."

"So are you," Sam affirms, and they're not the words he expected to come out of his mouth, but he knows as soon as he says them that they're absolutely true. He said once that he would die for Castiel, and at the time he wasn't entirely sure he meant it, but he knows that he would now. He trusts Castiel with his life; more importantly, he trusts Castiel with _Dean_ , and they might not be brothers by blood but they're definitely brothers-in-arms.

There's a moment of stunned silence in which Castiel just sort of blinks at him as if taken aback by the declaration, while Dean looks at Sam with equal parts surprise and gratitude.

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel nods, and he actually sounds a little choked, "but I can't in good conscience allow more blood to be spilled when I can do something to stop it. I'm sorry."

"You know what? I can't deal with this right now," Dean mutters. With that, he's making a break for it, storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him before anyone can stop him.

"That went well," Sam sighs.

It's raining in Texas; fat, heavy droplets that have Dean soaked within seconds, the dark purple thunderheads rolling along the horizon a perfect backdrop to his mood. It's still warm, though, even as the evening draws in: the humidity cloying and oppressive, sweat beading along his brow to mingle with the rainwater.

He knows the demons are there. He can feel their eyes on with him every step he takes, a constant, insidious presence. None of them make a move, though, obviously under orders not to. Instead they hang back in the shadows and whisper among themselves, eyes sliding to oily black every time his gaze falls directly on one of them.

It's a testament to how lost inside his own head he is that he doesn't even hear the rustle of wings as Castiel appears directly in front of him without warning; consequently, he finds himself having to slam the brakes on to avoid a violent man-on-angel collision. His boots slip on the wet pavement, and he almost falls flat on his ass before Castiel reaches out with lightning-quick reflexes to steady him.

"Jesus _Christ_!" Dean barks once he's relatively certain he's not going to drop dead of a heart attack.

"Not quite," Castiel deadpans, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that way that means he thinks he's being really fucking clever.

"Not funny, you dick," Dean snarls, breaking Castiel's hold and striding away again. Castiel manages to keep pace without much difficulty, which only serves to increase Dean's irritation. "I take it the sigil is starting to wear off, then?"

" _Starting_ to," Castiel agrees hesitantly. "I'm still somewhat limited."

"You can say that again," Dean mutters. "You know, it's really difficult for me to be pissed at you if you're going to insist on following me around everywhere."

"This town is overrun with demons," Castiel points out with a disapproving frown that rather disturbingly reminds Dean of his father. "You shouldn't be wandering off on your own."

"Fuck you, I'm not a child," Dean returns, and even _he's_ willing to acknowledge how petulant that sounds. "Besides, I'm not the one they want; maybe you should get your ass back to the motel before you're tempted to just stroll right up to them and hand yourself over."

"Dean, would you just _stop?_ " Castiel pleads, and the sheer frustration in his voice is enough to finally give Dean pause. The angel is standing under a streetlamp with his arms crossed defensively over his chest, the harsh orange glow throwing his features into sharp relief. The downpour has plastered his hair flat to his forehead, and he makes for such a sorry sight that Dean honestly can't decide whether he wants to kiss him or put his hands around the bastard's throat and throttle him to death. Either way, it stirs something up inside of him, that confusing, maddening mix of desire and frustration and anger and possessiveness that only Castiel has ever been able to inspire, and he knows with absolute certainty that he'll never survive losing this all over again.

"I'm no good at this stuff, Cas," he admits, ignoring the way his voice wavers as he steps closer until he's standing under the halo of the streetlamp with Castiel. "But after everything we've been through together, what we have between us, it's…it's important to me. I guess I thought it was important to you, too."

"I love you, Dean," Castiel responds without hesitation, staring at Dean like he has no idea where any of this is coming from. Like anybody can be that fucking clueless. "You know this. Of _course_ it's important to me."

"Then why are you so desperate to throw it all away?" Dean explodes. They're getting to the _real_ issue now, and he needs to stop talking before he says something he can't take back, but the floodgates have opened and he couldn't hold back the barrage if he tried. "You think I went all the way to Purgatory and back to haul your sorry ass out just so that you could go trotting after Thing One and Thing Two like a lamb to the slaughterhouse? Why are you so desperate to _leave_ , Castiel?"

Castiel actually reels back a tiny bit at that – whether it's the use of his full name or something else, Dean doesn't know – but only for a second, and then he's back where he belongs, right up in Dean's personal space.

"I never want to leave you, Dean," Castiel says sadly, taking Dean's face in his hands like Dean is something fragile and easily broken. "That's the _last_ thing I want."

He shakes his head once, and then suddenly they're kissing, something needy and reckless that springs out of nowhere and almost knocks Dean sideways with its intensity. It's all hands roaming over backs and shoulders, tugging fruitlessly at wet clothing even though they're still outside in the rain, in a town full of demons. Dean pulls at Castiel's hair, licks into his mouth with a feverish urgency, holds onto the quiet noises of desperation the angel is making like they could stay in this moment forever, forget about the outside world and all the heartache that's waiting for them just around the corner.

As quickly as it came upon them it's over, and the inches between them when they break apart seem like miles even though Dean can still feel the heat from Castiel's body, can still taste the rainwater from Castiel's lips.

"God, this is all such a fucking mess," he admits quietly, looking away. "You know, when I made that deal with Death to get Sam's soul out of the Cage…I asked him to bring back Adam as well, but he gave me a choice instead. Said I could pick one or the other, but I couldn't have both."

"Of course you picked Sam," Castiel says gently, like it isn't even a fucking question. And it isn't, not really: Dean would pick Sam over Adam over and over again. That's just the way things go. "You were _always_ going to pick Sam. Nobody could blame you for that."

"Yeah, well, I should have tried harder. _Made_ him take them both."

"You don't negotiate with Death, Dean. And you don't _make_ him do anything."

"Maybe," Dean concedes reluctantly, "but Michael never should've gotten in Adam in the first place. If I hadn't taken back my yes vote, he wouldn't have."

"You know you did the right thing by refusing to bend to Michael's will," Castiel says, and there's a fierce edge to his voice that Dean hasn't heard for quite some time now. "It's unfortunate that Adam got caught in the crossfire, yes. But it wasn't your fault."

"See, this is why I need you around," Dean tries with a wry smile that isn't entirely genuine. "Who else is going to tell me when I'm talking crap?"

"Don't think that I don't appreciate everything you've done for me," Castiel begins with solemn finality that lets Dean know that he has made his mind up once and for all. "Because I do. It means more than you know. But it's _my_ life, and you don't get to make this decision for me. I've killed so many people, Dean – humans and angels, and not just while I had the souls in me. And I know I can never take any of that back, but if it's within my power to save just _one_ innocent life…then that's something that I have to do."

Dean supposes it's a reflection on how much Castiel has grown, because he can remember a time not so very long ago when the angel didn't give much of a shit about innocent life one way or the other. But right now, he can't find it in him to care.

"So, what, you're just giving up, then?" He can't even be angry about it anymore; there's only a weary resignation that of _course_ this couldn't last, because nothing good in his life ever does.

"I didn't say that," Castiel argues. He leans in conspiratorially, dropping his voice to a whisper in case any eavesdropping demons might be lurking nearby. "Do you have the Colt with you?"

Dean blinks, thrown by the non sequitur as it takes his brain a few seconds to catch up. "Uh, yeah. I mean, I always carry it in the trunk, just in case. Why?"

Castiel smiles, a particular gleam in his eye that Dean saw for the first time outside a motel in Chuck's hometown, Castiel finding loopholes in divine prophecy like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"I have an idea."

They pull up at the Town Hall almost an hour early, the Impala rumbling to a halt outside the doors. Dean knows the place has to be swarming with demons, but from the outside it looks calm, tranquil. So unremarkable that he has to wonder whether it's been mojo-ed specifically to appear that way.

_Move along, nothing to see here_.

He swivels around in his seat to face Castiel, and in the moment that their eyes meet he realizes how little he wants to go ahead with this, thinks that he would give anything for it not to be necessary, and for a second or two he finds himself seriously struggling with the urge to just turn the car around and drive away as fast as humanly possible. It's a relatively simple plan, but there are so many ways it could go wrong. Neither Meg nor Crowley is stupid, and this isn't the first time Dean has played bait-and-switch with either of them.

But they're doing this to save Adam. As Castiel had pointed out – repeatedly – the kid is the only one among them who's anything close to innocent, and God knows the last thing he deserves is what the demons have planned for him. He's the one they left behind, and this is the _least_ Dean owes him.

With a sigh of resignation, he pulls out the Colt and holds it out to Castiel. Their fingers brush as he hands the weapon over, a welcome contrast to the cold metal of the gun.

"Only three bullets left, Cas," Dean warns. "That means you only get to miss once."

"I know." Castiel flexes his fingers around the gun, his grip sure and steady, before slipping it inside his jacket. He grins, a little wildly. "I'm a good shot. I learned from the best."

"Just...try not to get yourself killed, okay?" Dean says softly, while Sam clears his throat and shifts in the passenger seat and generally acts like an awkward third wheel. "I still think this is a stupid fucking plan."

"It's the only one we've got," Castiel points out. "But I'll do my best."

"Guys, we need to get moving," Sam breaks in, sounding regretful.

"Okay," Dean nods once, resolute. "Showtime."

Meg and Crowley are already waiting for them in the main hall when they enter, the briefcase containing Adam's soul still seated in front of them. Crowley is sporting a full-on Cheshire-cat grin as he looks them up and down, but Meg looks tense somehow, her brow creased and mouth pursed like she's seriously pissed about something. It's unexpected, but Dean doesn't really have time to dwell on it.

"Well, well, well, they really didn't waste any time reaching a decision, did they, angel?" Crowley gloats, about as pleased with himself as Dean has ever heard anyone sound. "The clock hasn't even run down to zero yet. Must be so nice to be wanted."

"This is my decision," Castiel tells him, and Dean has to hand it to him – he sounds convincing. Not that he didn't already know Castiel can be a damn good liar when he wants to be, but still. "Dean and Sam are simply here to...see me off. But before I do anything, you're going to let Adam go."

"I don't think so," Meg scoffs. "You get over here first, and then we'll see about handing over Winchester the Third."

It's not as though they hadn't expected things to go down this way, but Dean's heart is still in his throat as Castiel makes his way over to the two demons. He comes to a stop directly in front of them, somehow managing to look both of them in the eye at once.

"I keep my word," he insists quietly.

Crowley brays out a wry laugh at that. "Pull the other one, mate. It clangs."

Castiel doesn't break the demon's stare. "What about you keeping your word this time?"

Crowley shrugs after a second's pause. "A deal's a deal, I suppose." He waves a hand idly and the briefcase opens once more, though there's no light show this time; Adam simply materializes in front of them, wearing exactly the same lost, terrified expression as before. Another handwave and the silver thread binding him disappears, though Adam remains where he is; almost like he doesn't realize he's been freed. That could be a problem, but Dean figures it's one they'll deal with once their more immediate concerns are out of the way.

Speaking of which – he allows himself a surreptitious glance over at Castiel, and as he watches the angel reach a hand inside his jacket Dean becomes acutely aware of his own dry mouth, his sweating palms. He knows Castiel is a good shot, but he can't take out both demons at once.

As it happens, he doesn't even get chance to take out one. Almost faster than Dean can process, Meg seizes Castiel by the edge of his lapels and tugs him toward her, her face going hard and cold as she reaches inside his coat and pulls out the Colt. _Damn_.

"Boys, boys, _boys_ ," she sighs theatrically, but the playful tone is edged in steel, enough of it to make Dean nervous. "Didn't your Daddy ever tell you that you can't con a con artist?"

Dean clenches his hands into fists, feeling his fingernails split the softer flesh of his palms as he watches Meg trail the gun thoughtfully over Castiel's cheekbone before plugging the butt of it up under his chin. To his credit, Castiel doesn't flinch, staring her down unblinkingly.

"Five things in the whole damn world this gun can't kill," Meg muses softly. She drags the pad of her thumb over the Colt's hammer, drawing it back with a soft _click_. "I'm willing to bet the wingless wonder here isn't one of them."

"Careful with the merchandise, sweetheart," Crowley breaks in, all smug condescension painted over something a good deal more wary. "We don't want to go breaking him before he's lived up to his usefulness."

Dean doesn't miss the way Meg's jaw tightens as she twists her head in the other demon's direction, eyes narrowing in an eerily catlike manner. He's seen her pissed plenty of times before, and he knows right now that underneath that façade of control, she's absolutely livid. From the way Sam tenses beside him, a line of nervous energy, Dean can tell that his brother's picked up on it, too. But Meg still has the gun trained on Cas, and there's nothing they can do but watch and wait for what she's going to do next.

"What do you think gives you the right to talk down to me?" Meg snarls at Crowley, voice pitched dangerously low. "I was Lucifer's first lieutenant, you piece of shit."

"You mean you were his third choice when Lilith and Ruby both bit the dust?" Crowley shoots back, a slow smirk spreading over his features. "You're _nothing_. Less than nothing. The unwanted spawn of a fallen angel, always on the losing side of history. And now Daddy's locked away in the Cage, you think you can play in the big leagues. Well, I've got news for you, little girl: you're in over your head."

Meg doesn't say another word; her eyes flicker black for a fraction of a second, and then she's whipping the Colt away from Castiel to point it right at Crowley's head, pulling the trigger without hesitation. Her aim is flawless; the gun goes off with a bang that sounds deafening in the small space, and then there's blood and brain matter spraying over the back wall as Crowley's skull caves under the impact of the bullet.

"Pro-tip," she hisses. "Don't piss off the one who's holding the gun."

The King of Hell drops to his knees before his usurper, gaping dumbly up at Meg like he can't quite believe what she's done. He shudders once, twice, and then there's a flare of gold from behind his eyes and the smoking crater in the side of his head before the body collapses vacant to the dusty floor, nothing more than a limp pile of bones and flesh.

"I never could stand that smarmy dick," Meg remarks almost offhandedly, aiming a savage kick at what had been Crowley's head. It snaps back obscenely, flesh splitting beneath the sharp spike of her heel, a thin rivulet of blood escaping to pool on the floor. The atmosphere in the room is thick enough to be cut with a knife; the stunned silence absolute.

Castiel shifts ever so slightly, edging away from Meg, and that seems to bring her out of whatever trance she's fallen into, swinging the gun back round to train it on the angel's face again.

"Ah-ah-ah," Meg taunts, and her eyes are sparkling with vicious joy. "You stay where you are, flyboy. Unless you want to join our mutual friend over there, that is."

"What the hell did you do that for?" Sam wants to know, and he sounds as stumped as Dean feels. Dean's torn between irritation towards his brother for provoking the rogue demon, and genuine curiosity regarding the same thing.

"Bastard was working against me," Meg snarls, looking at Crowley like she wishes she'd drawn his death out a little longer. "There's a lesson here, boys: _everyone_ is ready to stab you in the back if you let them live long enough to do it. Just look how many times the three of you have fucked each other over. Sometimes you just have to put a bullet in their head before they get the chance."

Dean whistles, long and low; he knows he's goading her, but he can't help it. "Careful, your paranoia's showing. What were you saying about abandonment issues again?"

Meg continues on as if he hasn't spoken at all; if there's one thing that Dean's learned over the years, it's that demons love the sound of their own voices, and Meg more than most. "You know, it's not fair. I was a good daughter, to Azazel, to Lucifer. I was a good _soldier_. I followed my orders, I did exactly what they told me, no questions asked." She pauses a beat. "By the way – any of this sounding familiar yet, angel?" she asks as an aside to Castiel. His only response is a glare, the expression that usually signifies a smiting is imminent.

"I _believed_ ," Meg goes on, and there's something like real fervor in her voice now, something that reminds Dean suddenly and vividly of Casey, the first time he ever encountered the terrifying phenomenon of a demon with _faith_. "I believed that Lucifer would deliver us, and we would bring Hell to Heaven. We were promised Paradise, but they fucked up again and again and now we're left with _this_. Crowley might've been happy to stick to the status quo, but that just not gonna fly with me."

She grins, sharp and feral. "The King is dead. And I'm taking what's mine."

Dean grits his teeth, struggling to keep his frustration in check. Somehow, Meg knows something they don't know, and he can tell she's just itching to spill the beans, desire to cover her own back and keep them guessing warring with her natural predisposition for gloating. Dean just needs to find the right angle to push her from, but he's wary of experimenting while she's still got that gun trained on Castiel.

"That's very, um, _inspiring_ ," Dean tells her, injecting as much sarcasm as he can muster into the words. "Real profound. But what does any of that have to do with what's going on out there? The disappearances and the giant fucking spiders and the – the mutant fish men. What do you _know_ , Meg?"

She shrugs lazily, rolling her shoulders with a feline grace. "I know a lot of things."

"What do you need Cas for?" Dean tries again, going for a different tack.

Meg barks out a laugh, the sound of it shredding Dean's already frayed nerves. "What, you mean the dream team haven't figured it all out yet?"

"What does that _mean_ —" Dean starts, but he cuts himself off at the sudden scrape of claws against the wooden floor behind him, the wet snuffle of warm, rhythmic breath. He half-turns, though the wash of base, instinctual fear flooding his nervous system has him reeling with nausea, wanting to remain paralyzed and rooted to the spot. He might not be able to see the beast, but that doesn't matter: he can _feel_ it, something familiar as the sense-memory of sulfurous breath and fangs slicing through his vital organs settles like ice in his spinal column.

If the look on Meg's face is anything to go by, she can see the thing just fine; Castiel too. The angel and demon are wearing almost identical expressions of horror that would be comical under any other circumstances.

"Dean…" Sam breathes out lowly, his eyes fixed on a spot maybe fifteen feet away from them and three feet off the ground.

"I know," Dean mutters back. "Looks like Crowley brought Growly."

That's all any of them have time for before a warning snarl rips through the room and the hellhound attacks. Dean shouts out a garbled noise of panic and flings himself out of the way, but the creature doesn't seem remotely interested in him, flying straight past in order to charge right at Meg. It must take a flying leap at her when it reaches the center of the hall, because a split-second later she's crashing backwards into the wall as the slight body of her host is crushed beneath the hound's hulking weight.

It's clearly massive, even by hellhound standards, bigger by far than the ones that dragged Dean to Hell. He could tell as much just from the sheer power of the thing as it raced past him. He remembers Crowley in a derelict shack at the end of days – _mine's bigger_ – looks at the broken meatsuit that once belonged to the former King of Hell, and finds that the rest of the math adds up pretty nicely.

And that's when the shit well and truly hits the fan.

The doors to the main hall burst open and a handful of demons pile in, obviously attracted by the din. They take one look at the scene in front of them – Crowley dead on the floor, Meg still grappling with the hellhound – and attack, launching themselves at the Winchesters with a barrage of vicious kicks and punches.

Sam holds them off with Ruby's knife, wielding the blade with the kind of dexterity and skill that never fails to make Dean proud; but Meg still has the Colt, which leaves Dean weaponless and defenseless, fighting off demons with his bare hands. He delivers a mean right-hook to one demon, a thin woman in an evening dress, while Sam stabs into the protruding gut of a large bald man – but they're coming thick and fast, more of them pouring in from outside, and Dean knows they'll never be able to take down this many by themselves.

It occurs to him to wonder where the hell Castiel has gotten to, and he feels a frisson of worry beginning to build deep in his gut as he realizes he has no idea. From across the room, he hears Meg shriek something that sounds one-part agonized, two-parts furious. A gunshot sounds, then another, swiftly followed by a strangled whimper-yelp from the dog and the heavy _thud_ of a body hitting the floor.

"Cas!" Dean yells, ignoring the way his voice hitches a little in desperation. He dodges a blow from a black-eyed Kurt Cobain lookalike, slams his fist into the jaw of a kid who looks barely older than fifteen, but he's tiring already, muscles pulling and straining as he fights to stay one step ahead of the curve, to stay _alive_. He takes some comfort from the regular flashes of orange-gold as Sam slices through demon after demon, but in truth he knows that they're barely making a dent in the numbers, two more arriving to replace every one that falls.

They had the whole town possessed, Meg had said earlier. For the first time, Dean's beginning to think it wasn't an exaggeration.

He glances up briefly when there's a break between one assailant and the next, just in time to see a broad-shouldered man with an eyebrow piercing raise what looks like a section of lead piping, aiming right for Sam's head. He yells his brother's name, but even as he does so he knows that there's nothing he can do to prevent what will happen next, and a wild flare of panic overtakes him as the demon takes a swing.

He's just thinking that it's all over when the floor gives a sudden jolt beneath his feet, jarring enough to send Sam stumbling out of harm's way. It's followed almost immediately by another, stronger tremor that has Dean struggling to stay upright, and his mind automatically leaps to _earthquake_ even though they're nowhere near a fault line.

"What the…?" The words are barely out of his mouth when something hard and sharp strikes him on the back of his neck. At first, he thinks it's another demon attacking – but then he realizes that it's drywall, raining down in chunks from above. He tilts his head back, looks up in time to see the ceiling buckle, a large, gaping split opening up directly above them.

"Holy shit," Sam breathes from Dean's side, sounding kind of awed and terrified all at once. " _Dean_."

His gaze is fixed on a point somewhere over Dean's left shoulder, so Dean swivels his head around to see where his brother is looking – and promptly feels his mouth drop open in shock.

There, at the center of all the chaos, is Adam, flickering in and out of visibility like a strobe light on the fritz. He's still got that tense, skittish look about him, eyes darting frantically in every direction as he surveys the carnage, but it's joined by a steely, focused composure, enough to make Dean appreciate for the first time that Adam really did have Winchester blood flowing through his veins.

"He'll bring down the whole damn building," Dean mutters, largely to himself. " _Cas_!" he hollers again, and this time he's rewarded with the quiet flutter of wings that sound like they're struggling to take the strain as Castiel appears at his side, a solid, reassuring presence. The relief is almost overwhelming as Dean takes stock of the angel, sees that Cas is looking a little beat up but not badly hurt. There's blood running from a gash on the side of his face, and Dean could kiss him right here and now if not for everything else that's going down.

"We need to leave this place," Castiel announces, demonstrating once again his knack for stating the fucking obvious.

"Yeah, no shit," Dean mutters. The entire building shudders with an ominous groan as more debris rains down on them, in larger pieces now than before. The demons scatter like cockroaches, a few remaining behind to fight but the majority retreating like the cowards they are.

"Sam!" Dean shouts, watching as his little brother slices through the throat of a possessed woman. Watching Sam fight is terrifying at times; that bottled-up rage that Dean all-too-often forgets about bursting out of him in an explosion of violence and brutality. Sam is damn good at what he does, and that's something Dean will never stop feeling bad about; because this is the little brother that he dragged up by himself, and Sam should have had it better.

_Like Adam_ , some part of him remarks ironically, and Dean flinches at his own inner voice. Because, yeah: Dad tried to keep Adam out of all this, and look how that turned out. Sometimes it's easy to believe that they really are cursed.

Sam looks up at the sound of Dean's voice, and his face is flecked in gore, his ridiculous hair in disarray, but his expression is open and unguarded in a way that Dean finds infinitely reassuring. No matter what else is going on, he knows that he can always count on Sam to have his back.

"We're leaving."

Sam's eyes flicker to the echo of their half-brother, and Dean knows all too well the guilt he's feeling.

"Adam—"

"Can take care of himself," Castiel interjects roughly. The floor buckles beneath their feet, and apparently that's all the impetus Sam needs to get going, casting one last conflicted look over his shoulder before following Dean and Castiel as they attempt to make their escape, picking their way over the rubble and dodging the masonry that continues to rain down from above. Dean is wary of the demons, but it seems as though he needn't be; the few that remained behind are already retreating, more concerned with saving their own skins than defending their masters.

They've barely made it a third of the way down the long, twisting corridor that will lead to their freedom when Dean becomes aware of the halting, uneven footsteps and labored breathing of somebody following and turns on instinct.

Meg looks awful, her clothes torn and drenched in blood – both the black of the hellhound and vivid scarlet from her own injuries. She's limping badly, and her left hand is pressed to her side, where the bleeding seems to be heaviest; from between her fingers, Dean can see the wet shine of viscera, and he knows from experience that she's holding in her own intestines. It has him flashing back to Carthage, to Jo, and for a moment the sheer irony makes him want to laugh. Meg isn't helpless, though: her face is clenched in pain, but she's still upright, and she's still clutching the Colt tightly in her free hand.

Even as Dean is thinking that maybe they should speed things up a little here, the building gives another violent shake that sends him stumbling sideways and into Sam. There's an ear-splitting noise from above that can only be wood splintering and metal wrenching out of place, and that's about all the warning they get before a giant support beam is crashing down to hit maybe twelve feet away from them, bringing a large chunk of the ceiling with it.

Deadly-sharp projectiles bounce off of Dean's back and shoulders, tearing holes in his jacket; he flings his arms up above his head in a futile effort to protect himself, senses Sam and Castiel doing the same thing on either side of him. It seems endless, and for an instant he thinks that this is it, that they're going to die here, buried in the ruins of the fucking Town Hall – and then it stops almost instantly, the world suddenly silent apart from the sound of their own gasping breaths.

"Everyone okay?" he finds himself asking as the dust settles. He gets two replies in the affirmative, and on closer inspection he's satisfied that they're both telling the truth, other than maybe having a few new cuts and bruises that weren't there before.

Meg isn't so lucky. Dean can hear her groaning faintly, and as he squints in the direction that he last remembers seeing her he realizes that she's actually pinned to the floor by the support beam, her entire torso and most of her left leg crushed beneath the heavy structure.

It's difficult to feel any sympathy, and he's in the process of turning away and heading for the exit when her voice calls out after him, thin and reedy.

"What, so you're just leaving me here? After everything we've been through together?"

The remark is full of her usual derision, but Dean thinks that there may be a slight thread of panic in there somewhere too, and he wonders if there isn't some way they can use that to their advantage. She knows something big, he _knows_ she does. It's just a question of finding the right way to extract the information from her

"That was the plan, yeah," he tells her flatly.

In spite of his better judgment, in spite of Sam's murmured warning and Castiel's aborted grab for his arm, Dean picks his way closer to her. Meg is well and truly buried – even if Dean had any intention of rescuing her, he doubts he'd be able to – but he can still see her face, ashen and coated in a thick layer of dust. Dean wonders briefly why she doesn't just smoke out and leave the meatsuit behind, but then he notices it: an ugly red welt seared into the soft flesh of her inner forearm. _Binding sigil_. She must've anticipated that they would try to exorcise her and locked herself in.

Meg grins; her teeth are stained red. "Why, Dean, I'm hurt." Her gaze shifts to a spot just left of Dean's shoulder, and Dean can tell without looking that Sam has moved into place behind him. "How about you, Sammy? We had some good times, didn't we? Hitchhiking to California, and you so relieved to finally be rid of big brother."

"That's not—"

"Ah-ah-ah," Meg cuts him off. "You can't lie to me, Sam. I've been in your head, remember? That means I know you better than pretty much anyone. Well," she amends, "except for Lucifer, that is."

And Dean has officially heard enough. "You know, that was a pretty smart trick you pulled before," he comments neutrally. "Using Alastair's sigil on the victims like that. Knowing it'd bring me running straight here."

He ignores Sam's dismayed gasp at that, keeps himself focused on the task at hand, because if going there is the only way to make her talk, then damn it all, he's going there.

"Oh, you liked that? A language we both understand," Meg sneers. There's a truth to her words, though: even now, Dean still hears the call of Hell resonating in his bones, whispering to him in a dialect that sometimes still sounds like home.

"Yeah, it was a nice gesture," he says thinly. "But those sigils – they have meaning, don't they? I was his best student, his favorite…you of all people should know what that means. You don't want to tell us what you know? Maybe I'm through asking nicely."

"Dean," Castiel starts, but shuts up almost instantly at the warning glare Dean throws his way.

Meg laughs shrilly, a thick bubble of blood swelling and bursting at the seam of her lips. "Five hundred years. That's how long I was on the rack. There's not a torture in existence I haven't lived through at least once. But by all means, give it your best shot."

Dean sighs out his frustration through gritted teeth and the hallway gives another sharp jolt – _aftershock_ , his mind supplies helpfully. Meg screams out a curse as the rubble on top of her shifts, but she doesn't seem to be in any better position to escape once the tremors stop.

There's another problem, though: an eerie howl in the distance, more hellhounds baying for blood. The noise is faint enough that it's safe to assume the dogs are some distance away, but it still has the hair of Dean's nape standing on end, Sam shifting nervously at his side.

"Looks like your time's running out, boys," Meg hisses, devoid of her usual mirth. "Tick-tock."

"Tell us what you _know_ , Meg!" and this time it's not Dean who says it but Sam, because she's right, they're running out of time with every second that passes. "Come on, you really think we're gonna let you out of here? You're dying; this might literally be your last chance to gloat."

Meg's eyes flood black, a snarl twisting her otherwise attractive features into something grotesque. "It's coming," she announces triumphantly. " _He's_ coming. And if I can't stop him or control him, then you better believe I'm bending over forwards to cheerlead for him."

" _Him_?" Dean repeats to himself, a slow, creeping sense of foreboding starting in his gut. "Who are you talking about?"

"Think of the baddest bad you've ever come across and then multiply it by, oh, a thousand. The seas will rise up to claim the land, and the cities of man will sink beneath the waves," Meg goes on, and her eyes are glassy, unfocused, as if she's reciting from memory and not paying attention to the words that spill from her mouth. "You upset the balance, boys. And now the whole damn world is about to drown and there's not a thing you can do to stop it." She smiles then, drooling crimson fluid. "Though, it'll be fun to watch you try."

"Too bad you're not gonna get the chance." Sam strides forward, past Dean, reaches down to take the Colt from Meg's lax hold and presses the barrel of the gun against her forehead. Time slows to a crawl; Dean finds that he's holding his breath as the seconds tick by and still nothing happens, Sam staring down at Meg like he's having some kind of epiphany and Dean just wants to yell at him to fucking _do it_ already.

He stays quiet, though, for once. For some reason he doesn't fully understand, he feels like this is Sam's job.

"I thought you were just some girl," Sam says quietly, something vaguely accusatory in his tone. Dean can't tell if it's directed at Meg or himself.

It doesn't matter, though, because in the next instant Sam pulls the trigger – and all that happens is the dry click of the hammer coming down on an empty chamber.

_Only three bullets left_ , Dean had told Castiel earlier. One for Crowley, and there had been two shots when Meg was fighting with the hellhound.

Meg throws back her head and laughs, a rasping cackle of a sound that could only have come from Hell. "Guess your luck's run out."

Sam fumbles for the knife, but the ceiling gives an ominous groan above them at almost exactly the same time as another growl sounds in the distance; still some way off, but definitely closer than before. Castiel suddenly reaches out and grabs hold of Sam's arm, pulling him out of the way as a large chunk of sheetrock hits the ground just inches from where he had been standing.

"We need to go," Castiel repeats his words from before. There's a thread of urgency underscoring his tone now, like his spidey sense is telling him there's some seriously bad shit around the corner. "I'll take you."

"Are you kidding me?" Sam demands, wrenching his arm out of Castiel's grip. "After everything she's done, we're gonna just let her live?"

"Killing her is not worth your _life_ , Sam!"

"My hero," Meg simpers from the floor, batting her eyelashes up at Castiel. Castiel turns his gaze upon her, and the expression on his face only serves to remind Dean that Castiel is still a soldier first and foremost; and a pretty ruthless one at that.

"We'll leave her for the dogs instead."

Meg blinks, looking like she's just been slapped. Something like fear flashes briefly across her face, but it's gone in an instant, painted over with a furious scowl. Whatever else she might be, Meg's never been the sort to beg for her life; Dean can respect that, however grudgingly.

"Fuck you," she spits viciously. "You know, you stand there and you judge me, call me a monster, fine. I know what I am. But the three of you, you're no better; you just can't see it from way up there on your high horses. Whatever happens next, it's _exactly_ what you deserve."

Dean isn't going to deny the truth in her accusations, but the tirade falls on deaf ears; with an expression that brooks no argument, Castiel clamps a hand around both Sam and Dean's shoulders, holding on with just a little more force than is strictly necessary, and then there's the familiar queasy lurch of angel flight as the world falls away from them.

The instant he sets the Winchesters down outside their motel on the outskirts of town, Castiel finds himself staggering sideways into Dean, his legs threatening to give out from underneath him and his wings straining from the exertion of flight. Dean catches him with an arm around his waist, solid and reassuring in ways that a mere mortal should not be to one of God's warriors.

Castiel has long since stopped caring.

"Dude, you okay?" Dean asks, and his voice is warm, full of concern. Castiel allows himself to linger a moment longer before reluctantly pulling himself away to stand under his own power.

"I'm fine."

Dean snorts his disbelief. "Yeah, you really look it. You..." he lets the sentence hang, his eyes widening as his gaze drifts to a spot somewhere over Castiel's shoulder. "You brought my _car_? Cas, you're a fuckin' idiot."

"You're welcome," Castiel snaps, satisfied when Dean has the good grace to look a little sheepish. Perhaps it wasn't Castiel's best idea, bringing the Impala with them as they fled, but he doesn't think Dean would have been too happy at the thought of leaving his beloved car behind, in spite of his protests. In any case, the vehicle remains their only method of transportation for distances much longer than a few miles.

"Sam? You okay?" Dean queries, with that same note of concern as when he had asked Castiel the very same question. The younger Winchester appears to be deep in some unhappy thought, brow furrowed and mouth turned down at the corners.

"I just...what about Adam, man?" he sighs, and Castiel feels another strange pang of guilt for the third of John's sons, a boy he never even knew. "I hate that we left him behind."

"We didn't have a choice," Castiel says, even as he knows it to be untrue. If there is one thing he has learned since his adventures in godhood, it's that there is _always_ a choice, though the options are often undesirable.

"It's just, it's not fair," Sam continues needlessly; neither Castiel nor Dean are arguing against the unfairness of the situation, but this is not a novel concept for any of them. "I was in the Cage with him for years, you can't even imagine what that's like. He was a good kid. Smart kid. He was going to be a doctor. He didn't deserve any of this."

" _None_ of us deserve any of this, Sam," Dean points out, his own impotent frustration coming to bear. "You were going to be a lawyer. At least he can beam back up to Heaven again now, right? See his mom again?"

Almost in unison, Dean and Sam turn to direct their gazes upon Castiel, their first resource for all things celestial, never mind that he hasn't been anything even close to approaching heavenly for quite some time now. He feels the weight of their stares upon him, expectant, almost accusing, and shifts nervously, wondering when deflection became a habit for him.

"Not...exactly," he tries, knowing that they won't like whatever answer he gives them.

"What do you mean, _not exactly_?" Sam demands.

"You must understand, Adam's soul has been deeply traumatized by the torture he was forced to endure in Lucifer's cage. You of all people should know that spirits who have undergone trauma of that magnitude often experience...difficulty in moving on to the other side without some assistance."

Several seconds of silence commences while that sinks in.

"So what you're saying," Sam begins slowly, "is that he's going to be stuck here?"

"In all likelihood, yes."

"Well, there must be something we can do!"

"Like what exactly, Sam?" Dean counters hotly. "We can't exactly burn his bones _again_."

"I don't know, Dean, but we have to do something. I'm sick of other people getting hurt because of us."

Castiel watches this exchange with an increasing sense of resignation, and it isn't without some trepidation that he finally admits, "There might be something I can do. In the past, angels occasionally offered assistance to humans ascending to Heaven without the aid of reapers. Only special people, though, important people. The holy prophets, for instance."

"And you're only just mentioning this _now_?" is Dean's incredulous response.

Not for the first time – and not, he suspects, for the last – Castiel feels a frisson of irritation at Dean's unwillingness to understand what he is being told. "Dean, I don't even know if it's possible," he counters tersely. "This is a very old, very powerful ritual, and I haven't been conventionally angelic for quite some time now. I wasn't able to kill the Whore of Babylon because I wasn't a true servant of Heaven, and I'm substantially weaker now than I was back then. And you already know I'm not even sure I can call myself an angel anymore."

"Well, it's worth a shot, anyway. Nothing to lose, right?"

The tone is falsely casual, but Castiel knows that this is Dean's way of saying _I believe in you, I believe you can do this_. He glances up and does not miss the way Dean is looking at him, forehead creased in worry, bottom lip held furtively between his teeth. It makes Castiel feel grateful and resentful both, and he holds his breath for a moment before letting it out slowly, resigning himself to this course of action.

"I'm going to need some things."

They don't do the ritual at the motel – still wary of the possibility that the possessed inhabitants of Madisonville could walk in on them at any given moment – opting instead to drive until they stumble across an abandoned farmhouse nearly thirty miles away. 

As Castiel had explained it to them earlier, they need to summon Adam's spirit to them before anything else can happen, a ritual that requires one of Adam's possessions in order to work. Wordlessly, Sam takes a small, folded square of paper from his back pocket and passes it to Castiel. Dean doesn't need to see it in order to know what it is: a blurred photograph of Adam and John together, liberated from Adam's house when they went to deal with the ghoul problem what seems like a lifetime ago now.

Castiel takes the photograph and places it in a small wooden bowl with some crushed herbs before taking out his hunting knife. He drags the blade across the inside of his arm in a single, precise stroke, only wincing a little as the fragile skin there comes apart beneath sharpened steel.

"Whoa, easy on the bloodletting, Cas," Dean chastises, though he doesn't really know why he bothers: when has one of Castiel's spells ever _not_ involved opening a vein or three?

"The ritual requires blood. Would you prefer I used yours?" Castiel snarks back.

Dean rolls his eyes, but backs down. For all of his flaws, it can never be said that Castiel lacks conviction once he's got his mind set on a particular course of action. If anything, he has an overabundance of it, which is probably at least part of the reason why the whole Purgatory mess with Crowley got so out of hand.

When no one interrupts him again, Castiel swipes his fingers through some of the blood that's already running down his arm, smearing it over the front of the photograph. He draws several more symbols in a symmetrical pattern around the bowl and then waves a hand over the whole arrangement. A split-second later, the contents of the bowl ignite, burning with an odd blue-purple flame that gives off a vaguely incense-like scent.

"Neat trick," Dean mutters. Just for a change, Castiel ignores him, closing his eyes as he begins to chant in what Dean realizes after a moment is Latin, though Cas reels off the words much too fast for him to keep track of. This continues for around thirty seconds before Castiel abruptly falls silent and the flame goes up with a _whoosh_ of heat, leaping about four feet into the air and burning bright orange.

When it dies down, Adam is standing in the center of the room, looking every bit as out of it as he had back in Madisonville.

"Hey, Adam," Sam starts forward cautiously, holding his hands out in a placating gesture.

"Sam?" Adam stutters out weakly. He's flinching from shadows, eyes wide and terrified, darting around the room in a way that has Dean doubting he's really registering anything. It's something that's infinitely familiar to him; for too long after Hell, he was seeing things that weren't really there, torture and damnation where there was only real life. "Is...Lucifer coming back?"

"No," Sam tells him emphatically, taking another step closer. "No, Lucifer's never coming back again, I promise. You're safe now, okay? You're back in the world."

"This is the world?" Adam repeats slowly, like he wants to believe it but it's just too good to be true. He takes stock of his surroundings again, and this time there's some recognition there when his eyes fall upon Dean. Then his gaze shifts across to Castiel, and his expression instantly hardens.

"You're the angel."

"Yes."

"You left me there."

"Yes," Castiel admits, some nameless emotion choking the word so that it comes out sounding thick and uncomfortable. Then, after a beat, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, I get it," Adam responds bitterly. "I'm not important. Sam had to go fight some epic war against the forces of evil. Whatever. Why am I here?"

"Would you like to return to Heaven and see your mother again, Adam?" Castiel asks, and one of these days Dean really is going to have to teach him the subtle approach. Adam looks positively stunned, staring at Castiel with his mouth slightly agape.

"You...you can do that?"

"Yes," Castiel replies, and there's only a second or two of hesitation, of uncertainty. "But I'm going to need you to trust me."

Adam doesn't say anything for a moment, and Dean doesn't miss the way his eyes slide briefly over to Sam, like he's looking for advice, guidance. They don't really know how long Sam was in the Cage in Hell-time, but it is likely Sam and Adam were trapped together for what amounts to years, Dean remembers suddenly. Probably longer than Dean and Sam have been living in each other's pockets in the world of the living. The realization makes him uncomfortable, even though he knows it's ridiculous to feel that way. Still, no wonder Sam feels responsible for the kid; Dean has to wonder just how difficult he found it, playing the big brother for once.

"It's okay," Sam says again, "you can trust him. We want to help you, I swear."

"What if I don't want your help?" Adam asks defiantly, and there's the snarky little shit that Dean remembers from back in the days when Michael wanted to wear him like a cheap suit. He'd been so wrapped up in his own issues back then that he hadn't really bothered taking the time to try and get to know his resurrected half-brother, and he finds himself regretting that a little now, unable to stop himself from wondering how differently things might have been if only that disastrous raid on the green room hadn't gone so badly wrong.

"You people are the reason this happened to me in the first place."

"That's your choice," Dean tells him, "but if you say no now, you probably won't get another chance. You'll be stuck here forever, until that anger you're feeling for everything that's happened to you consumes you completely. You won't remember your mom, what happened to her, even that she existed; all you'll care about is getting revenge."

It's almost exactly the same spiel as Dean himself heard from Tessa all those years ago, but he figures that Adam should at least be aware of all the facts. Adam closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them again, his expression is utterly resigned.

"Okay," he says, so quietly Dean almost doesn't hear him. "Do it."

Castiel moves forward and places a hand against Adam's chest – over where his heart would be if he were still alive – closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, like he's mentally steeling himself. Then he begins to speak, this time in Enochian.

  


The words sound as guttural and strange as they always do to Dean, but when Castiel speaks them, they also sound _right_ , natural; like it's the language he was always supposed to speak. Dean wonders absently if Castiel ever uses odd turns of phrase in his mother tongue the way he sometimes still does in English, but listening to the smooth flow of syllables, he doubts it.

After about a minute and a half, Castiel sways on his feet, the steady stream of words halting abruptly for a second or two before he regains his composure and continues. Dean clenches his hands into fists, fighting the urge to rush forward and offer his support. He suddenly realizes that he can see the faint outline of the angel's wings flickering in and out of existence, a dim glow beginning to surround the pair as Adam starts to look more and more insubstantial.

  


The light increases in intensity until Dean finds himself having to shield his eyes and look away; Castiel's voice builds to a crescendo as he finishes the incantation on a shout, and when the light has faded enough for Dean to risk looking, Adam is gone.

Castiel is leaning dramatically to one side, and Dean steps forward to catch hold of his arm before he can topple over. His nose is bleeding slightly, a thin trickle of blood running down to his upper lip, and Dean brings up a hand to wipe it away without even thinking about it, an unconscious gesture that leaves him feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

  


"Did it work?" Sam asks hopefully.

"I believe so," Castiel replies wearily. "I sent Adam home to his mother. He is resting in the fields of the Lord once more."

Dean doesn't miss the slight note of wistfulness in Castiel's voice there – the _envy_ almost – and he doesn't doubt that there's a part of Castiel that will always miss Heaven. He doesn't begrudge it; he can even understand it, on the few occasions when he allows himself to think about those four blissful years when his mother was alive and all was well with the world. Ignorance is a funny thing in that it can never be regained once lost, but that doesn't stop most people from yearning for it all the same.

"Well," Sam offers after a moment of silence. "At least one of us made it. That's something, right?"

It's something.

It's a long, uneventful drive back to South Dakota, and when they arrive there's a note from Bobby telling them that the old man is on a hunt in Michigan with a buddy he owes a favor or three. Castiel climbs into bed almost immediately, despite his continued insistence that he's fine, and Dean can feel the strained atmosphere between them. 

Looking at Castiel now, Dean remembers the raw fear he'd felt when Meg had pointed the Colt at him, and it hits him all over again that he could have lost Castiel today; that he almost did. He knows that one day, he's going to have to face up to the eventuality that Castiel might die – the same way that Sam might die, that Bobby might die – but he can't deny that it's shaken him, seeing firsthand just how readily Castiel was willing to sacrifice himself. Knowing just how tightly Castiel is holding onto his self-loathing for every awful thing he's done.

Evidently they're even more alike than Dean realized, he muses somewhat bitterly, recalling the shudder of revulsion he'd felt upon seeing for the first time just what exactly Meg had done to those bodies.

"You're a fucking idiot, Cas," he sighs as he strips down to his boxers and slides under the duvet. "You do realize that you could have died today, don't you? I mean, you do get that?"

"But I didn't," Castiel argues churlishly, just for the sake of arguing, Dean suspects.

"That's not the point, Cas, and you know it."

"We had a plan."

"Yeah, a _bad_ one." Dean rolls his eyes before relenting slightly. "Look, all I'm saying is, try not to be quite so willing to throw your life away. It might not mean a whole lot to you, but it does to me."

"I'll try," Castiel agrees, which Dean supposes is the best he's probably going to get for now.

"Meg used Alastair's sigil on the bodies," Castiel adds randomly after a moment's pause.

"Uh, yeah, I know, Cas. I was there," Dean points out, wondering where exactly Castiel is going with this.

"That must have been…difficult for you," Castiel speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully as if Dean is a landmine that might go off without warning at any moment.

"I'm okay, actually," Dean admits, and he's surprised to find that it's largely true. He briefly thinks of the dream, and how he finally fought back against the memories that haunted him. "No, really," he adds at Castiel's disbelieving look. "What I did in Hell, what Alastair did to _me_ …it's not something I'm ever going to get _over_ , exactly, but I think I'm starting to accept it now. I just wish Sam hadn't had to see that. God, I never wanted him to know the things I did down there."

"Sam knows what I did, at my very worst," Castiel says, his eyes fixed on the bedcovers, "and he knows what _he_ did, without his soul. Did you really imagine his opinion of you would change because of the crimes you committed in Hell?"

"Maybe not, but there's a difference between knowing something intellectually and actually _seeing_ it firsthand. What Meg did to those people, it's exactly what I did to soul after soul after soul. My _specialty_." Dean laughs, an ugly, bitter sound forced out from the back of his throat. "Alastair taught us both. If you hadn't come for me, I'd be just like her."

Castiel covers Dean's hand with his own, entwining their fingers together. There's a part of Dean that still wants to squirm away in embarrassment, some bullshit pretence at machismo, but a much larger part of him enjoys the simple intimacy of the gesture, the comfort to be gleaned from it. Then Castiel leans forward and closes the distance between them to kiss Dean slowly, thoroughly, and Dean melts into it, meeting every press of lips and stroke of tongue.

They stay pressed close even after the kiss comes to an end; foreheads resting together, sharing each other's breath.

"Then it is a good thing," Castiel says slowly, "that I came for you."

"Yeah, it is," Dean agrees, quietly but with conviction. He draws back in order to see Castiel a little better and clears his throat, needing to change the subject. "So what about Meg, anyway? D'you think she made it out of there?"

Castiel doesn't answer for several seconds, which Dean knows well enough by now is never a good sign. "She's a demon, Dean. The hellhounds can't kill her. The best we can hope for is that they'll destroy her host and drag her back to Hell."

"And the worst-case scenario?"

"Meg killed Crowley, which makes her the new _de facto_ ruler of Hell. It's entirely possible the hellhounds have already shifted their allegiance and now follow her orders."

"Now there's a comforting thought." Dean pauses then, something occurring to him that had failed to do so before. "Wait, so Meg took over Hell just by killing Crowley?"

Castiel frowns, like he's not entirely sure where Dean is going with this. "The hierarchy of Hell is...complicated, to say the least, but that's usually how it works. Besides, there aren't many high-ranking demons left. You and your brother have a habit of killing them."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dean protests, running an agitated hand through his hair as he turns it all over in his mind. "If that's what Meg wanted all along, to get control of Hell, why didn't she just kill Crowley to begin with? And we still don't know what they wanted you for."

"Perhaps they didn't want me, strictly speaking," Castiel replies quietly, and he shrugs at the look Dean throws him. "Crowley said he wanted revenge. Meg wanted control of Hell. She had a way to get me here because she had a way to get you here. And if she had me, she could—"

"Bait a trap for Crowley," Dean mutters, largely to himself, and then he's heaving himself out of bed, pacing the confines of the motel room in his sudden, desperate need to figure it all out. "And she said he was working against her…but why not kill him the first time they showed up with Adam's soul? Why the whole charade to get you?"

"She needed the Colt to kill him," Castiel offers. "He was more powerful than Meg. It's likely she knew we would bring it with us when—"

"No…fuck it," Dean cuts in. "There's _got_ to be something else, nothing makes any sense otherwise. Those things she was saying... _him_ , who is that? All that crap about cheerleading – and the balance, and how we upset it…the whole world is going to drown. What the fuck does that even _mean_?"

"It's always water," Castiel breaks in, and his voice is flat, monotone, like he's not even aware that he's saying it, like it's something that's been subconsciously programmed into him without his awareness or permission. Still, the words stir something within Dean, and he realizes that – as weird as Castiel is undoubtedly acting right now – the angel is right. They've come under attack from the water in almost every place they've visited since he pulled Castiel from Purgatory, a subtle motif woven so seamlessly into the background of their lives that he hadn't even noticed it until now.

If asked, he couldn't say why his mind chooses to recall it at that moment, but Dean suddenly finds himself thinking back to the glyph Castiel had drawn for them after his encounter with Crowley in California, and again Dean is hit by that feeling of familiarity, of _surety_ that it wasn't the first time he'd encountered the symbol.

He thinks over what Castiel said, _it's always water_ , what Meg said too, the pieces of the puzzle nudging at the edges of his mind until suddenly the whole picture snaps into focus and he knows _exactly_ where he's seen it before.

Well, shit.

Ten minutes later, they're both dressed and piling into Bobby's library, Sam in tow. Dean pulls books from the shelves and flips through them in his need to find the right one.

"This better be good," Sam grouses over his mug of coffee, clearly resentful of being dragged out of bed less than an hour after he got into it. Dean could care less about his brother's mood, though, because for the first time in months he finally feels as though they're getting somewhere.

"I knew I'd seen it _somewhere_ ," he mumbles to himself, sliding out yet another volume and skimming through its contents.

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam queries, sounding as though he's starting to doubt Dean's sanity a little.

"That glyph, the one on Crowley's dagger, remember? Cas drew it for us after that snafu with Claire," Dean elaborates, feeling a swell of victory when he lands on the right page, the familiar swirls of the sigil staring up at him like a question mark. "I was sure I'd seen it somewhere before, but I only remembered just now – it was when we were researching Lovecraft, back when Cas went all MacDuff on us. Um, no offense, Cas."

"None taken," Castiel remarks dryly.

"Wait, you've read Shakespeare?" Sam interrupts, like _that's_ the key issue here.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean snaps. He slams the book down on the table between them, stabbing a triumphant finger at the illustration. "It's all there, see? The sign of Hastur the Unspeakable, a..." He trails off, more memories coming up to the surface and jostling for attention before he goes on. "A vast, aquatic, tentacled being. Ringing any bells, guys? 'Cause that sounds to me like—"

"New Jersey," Castiel breaks in. "It sounds like what we saw beneath the water in New Jersey."

"Yeah. Hey, Cas, didn't Crowley mention something about calling in the cavalry when he took the kid?"

"Yes, but I don't see—"

"That dagger he was using, the one with the glyph," Dean cuts him off impatiently, wanting the others to _see_ , "apparently it could be used to open up a – a rip between dimensions, or a _portal_ for this Hastur guy to come through."

"Holy shit," Sam breathes. Dean glances at him, sees that his brother's face is totally drained of color, his eyes glued to the book and scanning the page. The last time he saw Sam look so terrified, they were clutching each other like a pair of frightened little boys in St. Mary's convent, waiting for Lucifer to burst out of Hell.

"Dude, you okay?"

Sam laughs hollowly. "Yeah. No, not really." He runs a finger along the text. "According to this, Hastur was locked in an age-old arch-rivalry with the great Cthulhu. _The biggest bad you've ever come across, and multiply it by a thousand_. Jesus, she wasn't kidding."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Dean demands.

Sam shakes his head incredulously. "You really _haven't_ ever read Lovecraft, have you? He wrote Cthulhu as pretty much the most horrific thing imaginable, the ultimate Eldritch abomination. It's associated with the end of days, pretty much; according to Lovecraft, it sleeps for an eternity at the bottom of the ocean, but it's destined to rise again in an apocalyptic age to take back control of the earth."

"The dreamer has stopped sleeping," Castiel blurts out randomly, and his voice has that hypnotic, faraway quality to it again.

"Dude, what?"

"That phrase, it's...repeated in my dreams, over and over again, the same thing. I didn't understand what it meant."

Sam and Dean exchange nervous glances across the table, and Dean can tell from the expression on his brother's face that Sam is thinking exactly the same thing as he is.

"We wondered what Crowley was calling the cavalry in to deal with," Sam says quietly. "I guess now we have our answer."

And Dean's willing to bet that can't be a good thing.


End file.
